‘No thank you.’
‘I’m sorry if you were frightened. Mr Collins should not have entered your room. He’s never done anything like that before. I can’t imagine what has got into him.’
‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
‘Good night then.’
‘Good night,’ I said.
After Bethany shut the door behind her, I opened the window. I took the chair from the writing desk and dragged it over to the door, where I wedged it underneath the knob. Only then, secure in the knowledge that no one else could get in, was I able to sleep.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning, a shroud of fog had settled over the city. The wind blew against my windows, rattling them like a witch’s curse, causing the grey mist to swirl like waves. I dressed and headed downstairs, anxious to begin my day. In the foyer, two maids swept the marble floor. Chloe, the young woman who answered the door for me yesterday, had her head bent over some sort of ledger, copying numbers from a pile of receipts. She nodded at me as I passed her desk.
Once again, I followed the smell of coffee and cinnamon to the kitchen, where Alice laboured over something that smelled like heaven. She rolled out dough onto the section of the chopping block that had been covered in flour. Mrs McDougal stood near her, arms across her chest, supervising the girl’s efforts. Both women nodded at me when I came into the room.
The young woman twisted the dough and with expert fingers, dusted it with cinnamon and sugar from the bowl that rested near her elbow. She then placed the twisted dough onto a cookie sheet, waiting its turn in the oven.
‘There are cinnamon rolls, toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee.’ Mrs McDougal nodded to the table, where a breakfast buffet had been laid out. ‘We won’t have butter until tomorrow, so you’ll have to use jam.’ I grabbed a mug, filled it with coffee, took two pieces of toast, and sat down to watch the women tend to the baking.
Under Mrs McDougal’s watchful eye, the young girl went to the oven and took out a cookie sheet laden with half a dozen cinnamon rolls. She set these on a cooling rack, slid the sheet of uncooked rolls into the oven, shut the door, and set the timer.
‘Those look beautiful,’ Mrs McDougal said with pride. ‘Now glaze them with the icing, and I bet Miss Bennett will volunteer to taste one for you.’
‘Two for me, please. I’m famished.’ Dr Geisler burst into the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and loaded a plate up with toast, scrambled eggs, and two of the cinnamon rolls – a surprising amount of food for a man so slight of build. He sat down across from me, put his linen napkin on his lap, and dug into his breakfast.
‘You’re probably wondering why we eat in the kitchen. The dining room has been converted to a visiting area. I’m hopeful that when our beds are full, the patients’ families will come to visit them. There’s something warm and cosy about eating in the kitchen, don’t you think?’
He didn’t give me a chance to answer.
‘We dine formally in the alcove across the hall. We can seat eight people, and that is sufficient for our needs.’ He picked up the newspaper that lay folded on the table near his plate. ‘I’m sorry about Mr Collins. You’ll have a key to your room by lunchtime. I should have had the foresight to give you one when you first arrived. Did you sleep well after your interruption?’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Although I confess I wedged a chair under the doorknob.’
‘Mr Collins is quite taken with you, Sarah. I assure you he’s harmless, so if you come across him just know that he will not hurt you.’
‘What do you do with patients like Mr Collins? Has he always been like that? Can you cure him?’
‘Mr Collins used to be a prodigious piano player, a respected professional. He suffered a horrible tragedy, which pushed him over the edge. He hasn’t played the piano since.’ Dr Geisler set his fork down and used his toast to mop up the last of his eggs. He didn’t speak until he finished chewing and dabbed his mouth once again with his napkin.
‘I have no idea if I can do anything for him at this point. He seems to be a different person when he is under hypnosis. But when I bring him back, he regresses. When Mr Collins’s brother brought him here, he mentioned that he had no idea what to do with his brother’s piano. I suggested he bring it here, just in case it might trigger a memory. Music is great therapy.
‘But to answer your question, I’ll just say that I remain hopeful. You’ll learn more about his story when you transcribe my notes. I read what you did yesterday. Commendable job.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, pleased with myself for a job well done.
‘I’ve left a pile of handwritten pages on your desk. You will find the date they were written in the upper right-hand corner. If you would organize them chronologically, current date on top, that is the order I would like them in when you type them up. They aren’t going to be included in the book, but I need them typed today.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Sarah. I will see you later. I must check on my patients. Oh, and get you a key.’
Dr Geisler thanked Mrs McDougal for breakfast and left me sitting at the table with the San Francisco Examiner. The headlines RAF Rips at Berlin: Fires Rage and Jap Fleet Nears New Guinea jumped out at me.
Here I was, worried about mundane matters, while our soldiers faced the ravages of war and, somewhere in this city, someone’s wife, mother, or daughter was receiving a dreaded visit from a Western Union man.
* * *
Someone had left a flower arrangement on the desk in my office, a simple Mason jar filled with yellow roses, white tulips, and a spray of baby’s breath. There was no card, and I wondered if they were from Zeke. They brightened the room, a singular attempt to override the endless grey outside my window.
The promised pile of notes lay on my desk, waiting for me to sort them. I opened the curtains and the window, turned on the banker’s lamp, and set about my task.
I couldn’t help but read the notes as I organized them. They were written accounts of Dr Geisler’s hypnotherapy sessions dating as far back as 1938. I read of patients who had lost weight, controlled pain, and overcame chronic phobias. Dr Geisler had even cured two children of bedwetting.
I had just settled into a routine, sorting by year, then month, when Bethany came into the room.
‘I’ve come to see how you’re doing today,’ she said. She eyed the pile of papers on my desk and the vase of flowers.
I stretched my neck and flexed my fingers, using the exercises that Miss Macky had taught us to treat the inevitable cramps that arose after long hours of typewriting.
‘Beautiful flowers,’ Bethany said.
‘I don’t know who they’re from. I used to grow roses at my house in Bennett Cove.’
‘Do you miss it there?’ Bethany sat down in the chair next to my desk.
‘No. My memories of Bennett Cove are not good. But I love the beach.’
‘Sometimes it’s difficult to leave the past behind.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see you at lunchtime.’ She left my office, closing the door behind her.
Through my window, I could hear her enter Dr Geisler’s office. The conversation between them latched on to the spring breeze and flowed into my office, allowing me to hear it as though I were in the same room.
‘Did you buy Sarah flowers?’ Bethany asked.
‘I did. The poor girl deserved a little something. She’s alone in the world, and Jack Bennett’s trial has taken